


The Party

by PAPERSK1N



Series: A Taste of Honey [4]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s Music, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, McLennon, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Musicians, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Harassment, men r gross and Paul has had enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-27 04:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16695382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: The Beatles hate industry parties, but Brian insists making good impressions on the right people is key to making it 'big'. Brian's full of clever ideas like this- cleaning up their image to ensure they remain appealing to the right kind of mainstream audience.But sometimes, occasionally, it's hard to fly under the radar.(Someone upsets Paul, and if there's one thing John can't stand by and watch, it's his mate being taken advantage of.)





	1. The Party

 

**1962**

It’s Brian’s idea, of course.

 

It’s too risky. Paul being an Omega is too different and scandalous and exciting, and the last thing he claims to want is anyone in the press or the public using his status against them. Surprisingly enough, Brian actually seems to give a toss if they make it or not, and not just for the fame and fortune. He _cares_ about them, for some reason.

 

So Brian sorts it. To the world, they remain as _balanced_ and _traditional_ as a cutlery set; two Alphas, two Betas, bright eyes and shiny teeth, every young girl’s wet dream. But, of course, to anyone who makes it close enough, it’s clear just how much of a _beta_ their Paul is. Surrounded by the girly fans it’s easy enough to confuse his scent with any other bird in the flock, but in a place like this- the _industry_ shindigs, things become clear enough. Usually there’s only other Alpha and Beta males in the room, save for a few pretty server girls masking their scent with perfumes to avoid harassment by their clients. In the showbiz circles, Paul’s status is actually starting to become something of a well-kept secret between those who are _in the know_ and those who most certainly _aren’t_. There’s contracts and injunctions and all sorts of complicated legal fodder with no other intention than to maintain their sacred _image_ for a few extra bob.

 

The boys actually find it all a bit silly how serious it is- but it’s better than the initial plan Brian cooked up when they started out making a name for themselves on their first national tour, Paul hopped up on _scent blockers_ by Brian’s ‘trusted’ doctors, miserable and sulking, sex drive up and down like a fucking yo-yo, gloom lurking in his gut until John put his foot down. No, they decided as a _group_ , it would just be easier to keep the whole thing _secret_ , and, as long as nobody opened their mouth in the wrong circle, nothing could go wrong.

 

(they wouldn’t out-live the year, anyway, most suspected)

 

The boys all _hated_ these kind of parties. Big Alpha fat cats with the key to their hopes and dreams in their fatter pockets, hopped up on the endorphins of a cash rush, leering over their precious, pretty money-maker: Paul _McCartney_. To most, he was seen as some kind of _luxury,_ an exotic, wild thing. Male Omegas weren’t exactly common, and apparently, aroused quite a lot of excitement in a room like this. Over the six months or so since _making it_ , many had propositioned him, but Brian was quite good at keeping most of the _admirers_ at bay.

 

Still, he insisted to the boys that _nobody_ was allowed to know that John and Paul were mated. Even if they already knew he was an Omega, the idea of a potentially _homosexual_ relationship between two members of the biggest band in the country was a little _too_ controversial for their tastes. He wanted to make the most out of whatever short-lived fame they had left, not see it come crashing down with one fatal kiss. And, Paul had to admit, he agreed with Brian’s reasoning, even if John didn’t. To Paul, it actually seemed quite a sensible decision, and he was already quite used to keeping things chaste with John in public. From a distance, anyone could view their relationship as something not quite right. He didn’t quite want to give them the chance to get close enough to know the truth was much the opposite.

 

John hated the idea, obviously, because claiming Paul as his own in a room full of strangers had always been half the fun. Past the petty, instinctive desire to lord his prize over their audience, John _loved_ Paul with everything he had. Just being beside him made his insides burn fiercely, and it was almost _painful_ \- not being able to touch him in a place like this. His neck itched from where Brian’s assistant had dabbed thick make-up over his mating scar and his fingers itched when he spotted Paul across the room, talking animatedly with some big-wigs, their hungry eyes dancing across his flesh.

 

Of course, it would be easy to just stroll over and grab Paul by the hand, twirl him into a fierce kiss, slobber his scent all over him so the rest of the party _knew_ he was taken- but John fought hard to resist the urge. He knew what was at stake. Whispers reported that maybe, just maybe, they were about to break _America_. And John wasn’t stupid. He knew what that meant.

 

If they broke number one in America, they’d have the whole world at their feet.

 

However, it was hard to remember this when you were confined to a four-foot minimum restraining order from the person you most treasured, trapped halfway across the room with a scotch and soda, some big-wig’s sultry middle-aged wife chatting you up at the make-shift bar. Of course, she was stupidly attractive, John had to admit- but it didn’t matter, not really. Not when Paul was somewhere else in the room, somewhere he couldn’t quite see, waiting for the moment they’d be reunited again.

 

John managed to sustain the small talk for as long as possible until the older woman finally seemed to take the hint that he _wasn’t_ interested in her experienced, honey-trapped pussy, and took her martini elsewhere. John would’ve been perfectly content in his solitude, nursing his own drink quietly, if one _Ringo Starr_ hadn’t suddenly appeared from the adjacent corridor, panic washing over his flustered face, eyes scanning the room desperately until they fell on _him_ , wide and sparkling blue.

 

“Fuckin’ hell mate,” John muttered quietly as Ringo grabbed him by the elbow and steered him towards the door leaving the room. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

 

For once, Ritchie wasn’t interested in entertaining his dry humour. The panic still hadn’t dissipated from his face, and suddenly, John’s stomach twisted around the whiskey. Something wasn’t right. Something was _decidedly_ wrong, with this picture.

 

“Look,” Ringo said quietly, almost panting with urgency. “I don’t want ya to make a scene but… it’s _Paul_.”

 

At even just the sound of his mate’s name, John’s whole body stiffened. Mouth setting into a rigid, thin line, he abandoned his scotch on a nearby cabinet and stood up a little straighter, looking down his nose at Ringo, all notions of humour long dissipated.

 

“What’s happened?”

 

“John. Calm down.” Ringo’s pathetic attempts to sate him were far from effective. He looked _nervous,_ which didn’t fill John with any kind of confidence, pulling his blazer sleeves down over his bejewelled hands, crossing and uncrossing his arms around his chest. Ringo didn’t get nervous simultaneously singing and drumming on a stage in front of five thousand people. Nothing scared him- but here he was, _nervous_ as anything. “Brian didn’t want me to tell you,” he started, and dread sank in John’s stomach. “…because he knew you’d go mental but… I’m your mate and I’m an Alpha too so… I’d want to know if it was my-”

 

“Spit it out, for fuck’s sake!” John snapped. Ringo sighed, toying with his bottom lip between his teeth, unwilling to meet John’s eye for more than a second or two at a time.

 

“It’s Paul… he’s… Fuck-” He sighed, raking one hand through his thick, half-grown mop-top. “Someone’s maybe made a bit of a… erm, _pass_ at him and he’s a bit upset about it.”

 

John swallowed thickly. “Where?”

 

Ringo glanced up the grandiose polish wood staircase, before nodding for John to follow him up. “Just over here.”

 

In stony, uncomfortable silence, John allowed himself to be led up the stairs and through a series of narrow, winding corridors until they came to a dead stop outside a single room. Ringo knocked once, and then two more times (because, seriously, could you be as close as four lads like them were _without_ having a secret knock or two?) before the door clicked open just an inch.

 

Ringo looked apprehensive to even enter the room, but John was past the point of patience as Paul’s scent trickled through the door, singed with fear and frustration. He pushed past their drummer and burst into the room, catastrophically unprepared for the sight he was set to be faced with.

 

Paul was sat on the edge of the bed with frustrated, angry tears dampening his cheeks, George’s skinny arm tightly wrapped around his shoulders, quiet words of comfort being muttered into his ears and promptly ignored. Paul didn’t even look up until John entered the room- at which he let out a sigh of relief before springing up from his seat, rushing into John’s arms without a second look, fresh tears springing from his lovely, doe eyes.

 

Most of the time, John almost forgot that Paul was an Omega at all. Above everything, Paul was a _lad_ \- he liked fast women and strong scotch and expensive, fancy cars. They wrestled and whistled at girls and played rock and roll music at volumes that should’ve been _illegal_. Paul was the most level headed, straight-forward, strong and independent _bloke_ John had ever met. Usually, things like _this_ went the other way around- John was the emotional, uncontrollable wreck, and Paul was his anchor, soothing him and comforting him and keeping him fastened to the ground.

 

But now Paul was almost _sobbing_ , breaths hiccupping as John wrapped the boy in his arms and rocked him back and forth, before leading them back over to the bed. It frightened him- because John had _never_ seen Paul loose control like this. He’d seen Paul cry, of course- he’d even _made_ Paul cry one or more times than he’d prefer to admit, but this was different. Paul wasn’t crying because he was upset. These tears were purely of _anger_ and _frustration_ , something John could relate to all too well.

 

“Love, look, calm down.” John tried to soothe him, sitting them both side by side on the bed, stroking the hair at the nape of Paul’s neck gently. “Just tell us what happened.”

 

“We should go, you’re probably-” George began to say, but Paul lifted his tear stained face from John’s shoulder before he could finish, and shook his head abruptly.

 

“No, stay. I… I’m sorry- I’m carrying on like a fuckin’ _bird_ or something.”

 

“It’s alright.” Ringo said, sad eyes sparkling. “Something’s shaken you up rotten. Just tell us and we’ll sort it out.”

 

“It was that bloke, wasn’t it?” George suddenly said, three pairs of surprised eyes flying towards him. “The one with the gold watch an’ the red handkerchief. I saw him staring at ya.”

 

“So did I.” Paul sniffed. “Just ignored it, y’know. I’m used to things like that, they don’t really bother me...” he trailed off, and John’s hands silently curled into tight little fists. It didn’t matter how many years had passed since Paul’s presentation. John would still _never_ be used to the idea of other people- other _blokes_ looking at him and seeing the same attraction as he did. “…but he kept _lookin_ ’. And then he was comin’ over, and it’s like Brian says- these guys have so much power over our future, I didn’t want to be _rude_. So I let him make his little comments and pretended not to notice they way he was lookin’ at me but… he just wouldn’t _stop_ , you know? And then he was sayin’ all these _things_ that he would’ve wanted to do and… God, it makes me feel _sick_ just thinkin’ about it. Why do some blokes think that it’s _okay_ to just… _talk_ like that to another person, in _public_? It was _embarrassing_.”

 

“But you shook him off, right?” John asked, suddenly starting to feel a little nervous himself. he didn’t like where this story was going. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to hear the end, but nothing was ever going to get done if he continued to stick his head in the fucking sand. “Told him where to go, I’m sure.”

 

“I tried.” Paul scoffed, before sniffling again, shuffling a little closer to John. “But he wasn’t having it. didn’t like being rejected, so it seems.”

 

“So what happened?”

 

At this, Paul stiffened slightly. He didn’t speak straight away. He lifted his legs up onto the bed and hugged his arms around his knees. Sensing his discomfort, John wrapped an arm around him the same way George did, only tighter, before brushing the tip of his nose against the side of Paul’s face, hoping at the very least to soothe the tension in his bones. Whatever had happened next, like Ringo said, it had _shaken_ him, and John didn’t like it one bit.

 

Paul didn’t look at him, or any of them. Eyes narrowed, he stared into space, scarcely blinking, before recounting his terrifying tale. “He grabbed me by the back of my jacket, dragged me out of the room and into this little pantry. I wanted to swing on him, but he didn’t give me a chance- turned me around and had me up against the wall, saying all these horrible things- fuckin’… God, John- he said if I didn’t give him what he wanted, he’d made sure The Beatles were nothin’ more than a one-hit wonder. Said if I wasn’t going to give it up to him he’d just have to take it himself and-” Paul cut himself off, shaking his head from side to side before dragging his hands over his face, pushing his hair away from his sweaty brow.

 

Sure, he wasn’t crying anymore, but John had to wonder if this was worse. George and Ringo were standing in front of them, frozen in shock, awaiting the crucial conclusion of the story. If Paul was about to say what they were _expecting_ him to say… well. Nothing in the band would ever be the same. Nothing in the _world_ , would never be the same, and John suspected none of them would be satisfied until they’d burned the whole fucking house to the ground, with this particular dickhead trapped inside.

 

“What happened?” John asked quietly, scarcely trusting himself to breathe, let alone speak. Finally, Paul turned and looked at him, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

 

“I thought I was done for, to be honest. But then one of the serving girls walked in to get some ice and I managed to get away. I ran to Brian first, but he was schmoozing some other queer-looking merchandise bloke. Then I ran into George and Ritch and… well… you know the rest.”

 

“Red hankerchief, you said?” John asked, looking to George, who nodded gravely.

 

“And a gold watch. Brown suit and an ugly mug.”

 

“Right.” John stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Before he could take a step out of the room, Paul was up like a flash behind him, pulling him back by his wrist, fear splashed across his face.

 

“John- wait… you can’t.”

 

“Can’t I?” John fumed, finally letting the anger he’d kept so tightly bottled whilst Paul needed him to be strong flow out. He was ready to do something he’d regret. Rotting in a prison cell for the rest of his days didn’t really sound so bad, if it meant this _prick_ got what was coming to him. “He fuckin’ tried to… _you know_ -” God, he couldn’t even say it. He couldn’t speak the words aloud. That would make it _real_.

 

“-I _know_.” Paul sighed. “Don’t you think I know that, John? I’m terrified by the whole thing but… these blokes- they’re _important_ , you know. They control our chances at making it.”

 

“He tried to hurt ya, Paul.” George cut in, hands shaking as he tried to light two cigarettes at once between his lips. “We can’t just… _let_ that happen. It’s wrong. And if we don’t do something… he’ll do it again, to someone else. Some poor server-girl who doesn’t have mates hanging around to protect her.”

 

“Fuck the band.” Ringo added with a scoff, accepting the cigarette as it was offered to him by George. “You’re more important to us.”

 

“To _me_.” John said, holding Paul’s eye. “I love you, Paul. You can’t expect me to just stand still and let you get treated like a piece of fuckin’ _skirt_.”

 

“I just don’t want ya to do something you’ll regret.”

 

“Trust me.” a nasty smile spread across John’s lips. “I won’t regret this. Not even for a second.”

 

A moment of silence passed between the two of them, Paul’s eyes wide and shining with fresh unshed tears, John’s mouth pressed into a hard line, heartbeat stuttering in his chest. There was nothing stopping him from flying down the stairs there and then, ready to seek out the bastard who’d dared so much as look at _his_ Omega funny, but John found himself, like always, trapped in Paul’s gaze. He waited and waited and waited until Paul released him with the smallest, imperceptible nod. Out of all of them, Paul was the most image conscious, and deep down John knew that if he really wanted things to just be left alone, they would be. Paul had that sort of power over him- and he’d never been afraid to use it.

 

But this man had done worst than hurt him. This man had _scared_ him, so Paul nodded, giving John permission to turn and charge out of the room, through the winding hallway and down the stairs. George and Ringo were hot on his tail, Paul himself not too far behind, Beatle boots click-clacking on the hard wooden floors in perfect, rhythmic unison. John was miles ahead, white hot rage burning behind his eyes and his pink stained cheeks as he launched himself into the middle of the party like a man crazed, eyes scanning the room until they landed on his prey; a fat, middle aged man with a gleaming golden watch and a red handkerchief folded in the breast pocket of his brown suit.

 

John had never needed words to settle any dispute, that was much more Paul’s area, so he launched himself at the man without need for warning nor explanation, landing two well aimed punches to his fat fucking face before the crowd had a chance to react in shock. John didn’t need words because violence was all he knew, but when he briefly looked up and caught eyes with Paul, frozen at the top of the stairs but no longer _afraid_ , a few choice sentiments managed to slip out.

 

“THINK YOU CAN FUCK WITH MY OMEGA YOU WORTHLESS, SPINELESS LITTLE PIG?” he hollered, socking the man once more for good measure, his other hand tightly wrapped around his red silk tie, tightening it around his neck. “I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YA IF YOU SO MUCH AS LOOK AT HIM EVER AGAIN. YOU GOT THAT?” he let go with a flourish, and the man’s head hit the floor with a light thud, blood leaking from his flushed face. John was straddled over him, chest heaving. He lifted his eyes and looked around the room at the shocked and dazed faces, not one person inching forwards to intervene, too shocked by the scene playing out in front of them. John scowled at the lot of them- “PAUL MCCARTNEY IS CLAIMED, ALRIGHT, AND DON’T ANY OF YA FUCKING FORGET IT.” he said, jumping back to his feet and storming out of the house all together.

 

Barely a few tense, silent seconds passed before Paul legged it after him, mop-top flying in the breeze as the heavy door swung behind him and he was met with the night air, John heaving against Ringo’s car just down the path. Paul rushed over and grabbed him around the middle, hugging him tightly from behind and burying his nose in the back of John’s neck, just breathing him in, trying to anchor them both. In truth, his head was absolutely spinning with the rollercoaster he’d just been strung alongside. He didn’t know what to feel. He just needed John as close to him as physically possible.

 

“Let’s go home.” John said, steadying his shaking breaths and fumbling for the door of Ringo’s car, slipping into the passenger side without a word. Paul just nodded shakily, rushing over to the driver’s side and fumbling for the keys (Ringo always left his keys in his car, so when he was drunk, he couldn’t lose them. So far, it was a perfect system) before starting the engine. It didn’t actually cross his mind until they were halfway home that he and John had actually just nicked Ringo’s car. He supposed their drummer wouldn’t mind too much, given the circumstances.

 

Home, for now, was a small but pretty one bedroom flat just outside of London that they flocked to whenever they were granted a break from the perils of touring. Most of the time they hopped from hotel room to hotel room, seeing the highs and lows of every scummy motel England had to offer- but every once in a while when they were granted a break, this was _home_.

 

Their first home, together. Officially, Paul was still living at his dad’s place, but this little flat was John’s and John didn’t really go anywhere without Paul these days, half of his stuff filling the wardrobe and his favourite lemon tea stocked in the cupboards. Their trendy London pad was a safe haven, a place they could be so unequivocally themselves without fear of outsiders or judgement or pain. The only fights to be picked in here was over who got to take a bath first, and they were quickly resolved when Paul came up with the quite simple solution of using their small new-found fortune to just buy a bath big enough for them both to share.

 

John slipped the key in the lock, Paul so close behind him that he could smell the adrenaline that seeped from his pores. This was decidedly new. As a real _grown-up_ John actively tried his best _not_ to pick fights anymore, because usually, after the brawls of his youth, Paul could barely stand to look at him. But this time, something between them was different. John hadn’t fought because he was young and stupid and full of pain with no relief. John had fought with the sole intention of protecting Paul from harm, and for once, their roles were reversed. John would never tire of needing Paul, but for once, it felt nice to _be_ needed by the most independent bloke on planet fucking earth, and when the front door clicked shut behind them and Paul ran into his arms, John was happy just to hold him close, enveloping his mate in a tight hug.

 

“Never.” He mumbled into Paul’s hair, before dropping light kisses over his face. “I’ll never let anyone so much as fuckin’ touch ya again, alright? I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop him.”

 

“You were there when I needed you.” Paul replied, hugging him even tighter, as if that were possible. “I needed you, and you came. That’s all I care about.”

 

John let out a shaky laugh. “Glad I could be of service.” He joked, but Paul was in no laughing mood. He was clingier than a fucking octopus, and John wasn’t used to seeing this side of him. He was wriggling around as if he could fucking climb inside, arms winding around the back of John’s neck, pushing their foreheads together. He couldn’t stand still for a second, almost vibrating with tension, only relaxing when John’s hands fell back on him, rubbing up and down the small of his back.

 

Finally, John clued on to exactly what Paul needed. In their relationship, most of the time, Paul took the lead- Paul spoke to the accountants and picked the restaurants and held John tightly when his stupid brain held sleep hostage- but, for now, he needed John to be totally in control. He’d never dare admit it, but he _was_ still frightened, and John could sense this, so he held Paul as close as possible before ducking his head to meet his neck, rubbing his scent all over him.

 

Paul sighed as John licked a stripe of saliva from his clavicle to his cheek, before peppering kisses over the foundation-covered scar that bound them together. Frustrated with the obstacle, he grabbed Paul by the waist and lead him into the bathroom, snatching a cloth and running it under the hot tap before dabbing away as the thick, clotted makeup until the shiner was once again revealed, bruise still as fresh and burning as the day John had given it to him. Paul shivered at the memory of John’s teeth clamped into his skin. He’d have given anything to go back to that day, almost bitter that they wasted the moment by sharing it in the dingy back room of Stu’s flat, simply too excited at the prospect of having a day to themselves, let alone a lifetime. It was a split-second decision, John on his back and Paul in his lap, an unspoken agreement passing between their locked eyes before Paul leant down and made the first move, claiming John as his own, forever. He’d only been eighteen. His dad had almost murdered them both.

 

Once they were both free from the constraints of fame and image (not that much of that mattered anymore, he suspected) John steered Paul into their room, their truly private paradise, and Paul said nothing at all. For once, he allowed himself to be led to the bed, he allowed John’s hands to unbutton his clothes, he responded in exactly all the ways John wanted to until they were both completely naked and satisfied, Paul’s head on John’s chest, John’s marks littering his neck and his chest and his hips.

 

“Thanks.” Paul eventually breathed, crawling up John’s chest to hold him by the back of the head, burying his fingers in John’s mop-top and kissing him once, sweetly. “I really needed that.”

 

“Me too.” John replied without opening his eyes. “Now give us a cuddle.”

 

For the first time that whole evening, Paul laughed.

 

“Course I will.” He said, nudging John until he turned onto his side, wrapping himself around him from behind. “Nice to know that you need me just as much as I need you.”

 

“More.” John said. “I’ll always need you more than you could ever need me.”

 

There was a long, quiet pause then. So long, in fact, John wondered if Paul had simply fallen asleep. But he hadn’t. he squeezed John a little tighter, and said nothing at all, just pressed his promises into John’s skin with kisses instead of words- because, he thought, he would always need John, far more than he could ever imagine.


	2. The Next Day

**The next day**

John hated the blasted thing, but Paul had always insisted that they kept a telephone by their bedside, just in case someone needed to reach them in the night. So far, it hadn’t come in useful at all, except when Aunt Mimi was on the other end of the line interrupting their midday _fuck,_ but the morning after the party they were both startled from sleep by it’s shrill, cruel ringing, John groaning as Paul prodded at his back, whining that _he_ should be the one to answer, this being _his flat_ , after all.

 

“Fine, for fuck’s sake.” John grumbled, reaching for the phone blindly, rubbing at his tired eyes with his free hand. “’Ello?”

_“John, thank God. We’ve all been worried sick!”_

 

John rolled his eyes. “Brian, no offence mate, but I was fuckin’ sleepin’.”

 

“Me too.” Paul mumbled, eyes still closed as he rolled onto his back and tucked his arms behind his head. For a second, John was too distracted to pay attention to the telephone conversation by the sight of Paul’s pale chest in the early morning sun, littered with little bites and hickeys. It was glorious.

 

“ _I tried to stop by your flat last night to check if you were both alright, but neither of you answered.”_

 

At this, John smirked to himself. “Yeah, we were a bit busy. Sorry.”

 

“ _…Right_ ,” God, this was too easy. John could practically _hear_ their manager’s pink-and-white blush. “ _Well. I just wanted to see if you were both okay. Richard explained everything.”_

 

“All sorted now. Am I in trouble, Sir?” John teased, but his heart stuttered as images from the night before assaulted his brain, and the regret began to sink in. Was this it? Had John just blown their biggest chance at making it overseas?

 

“ _Not quite.”_ Brian said, much to John’s relief. _“Seems as such Mr Parker has a habit of… preying on vulnerabilities, so to speak. I told him we wouldn’t turn him in if he didn’t utter a word about this incident to the press. Most of the others already knew what was at stake, and those who didn’t, now do. So, you’re welcome.”_

 

“Always cleaning up my messes, aye?”

 

“ _It’s my job, unfortunately John. I do, however, hope you’ll refrain from making such a scene in future?”_

John looked down at Paul, who finally peeled his eyes open, shooting him a daft face, tension of the previous evening soon melting away. “I’ll try, Eppy. Ta-ra for now, anyway. Got to go you see, plenty to do.”

 

“ _But John, if you could-”_

 

Sadly, for Brian, it was too late. John abandoned the telephone on the bedside table and instead focused all his attention to pouncing on Paul, who giggled with the joy of a child as John peppered slobbering, wet kisses all across his face and his neck and his chest, trapping them both underneath the warm duvet. If he had his way, they’d forget all the fame and just spend their lives like _this_ , two boys safely nestled underneath a blanket, hidden away from the wretched world, trading warm kisses in the morning light.

 

 


End file.
